Of Debts and Scars
by harlequindreaming
Summary: May 3rd at the war memorial: "your blood - it was just like mine. It was clean." Rated M to be safe?


_**A/N** Another song-prompted one-shot, written between chapter updates of my ongoing fics. I swear I'll update Renegade as soon as the chapter decides to cooperate with me. -_-" I just got home from one hella eventful class trip, so updates should come… hopefully soon?_

_Song prompt: Worlds Apart, by Jars of Clay. I absolutely love this song, religious undertones be damned (haha). Quote that particularly smacks of Draco (at least for this fic) is "all said and done I stand alone, amongst remains of a life I should not own."_

_Story time! Double **xxxxxxxxxx **and a line indicates a major time skip._

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Hangovers were bitches on their period, and this morning's was no exception. Draco couldn't remember why it had been a good idea to drink himself stupid last night, but yesterday's idiocy had left today's regret to pick up the tab and clean the toilet. Something he did not want to do, today of all days.

Today was May the 3rd, in the year 2002; he'd never managed to snap out of formalities, no matter how long since the war. And yesterday had been its anniversary, the day when the wizarding world stood still for a few moments to remember their liberation, honor their heroes, pay respects to the dead, and whatever other hoopla would be splashed out on the papers. Draco hadn't even glanced at the morning Prophet on his way out the door, preferring to stare at warm, comforting coffee instead of painful black-and-white print. But he hadn't missed the shot of Harry Potter, battle-worn and beaten, stepping up to the podium in the middle of the Ministry's largest meeting hall. The same shot they'd been using for four years now; the way everyone wanted to remember The Boy Who Lived, slayer of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and savior of wizards and Muggles alike.

The thought made Draco want to puke more than the hangover.

Oh, he was deeply indebted to Potter, no questions there. Potter was the reason Draco had a job, had an apartment – hell, Potter was the reason Draco was alive and whole and not currently rotting in the newly-rebuilt Azkaban alongside his thrice-blasted father and his cronies. Potter and that old bat McGonagall and – painful though it may have been to Draco – Granger, who'd actually been his lawyer-of-sorts during his trial, who'd eloquently argued his case despite the evident revulsion in her voice. He was indebted to all of them, and the wizarding world in general, for being willing to overlook – if not willing to forgive – his life's mistakes. Actually, come to think of it, they'd more or less overlooked his whole life, period.

Well if that wasn't a pleasant thought.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

The gate to the war memorial park was creaky and slightly rusted, and Draco wondered why they'd gone to such great lengths to keep the actual monument immaculate – minus the sheen of candle wax – but they couldn't even keep one measly gate oiled. The screech of corroded metal echoed sharply in the gray of the dawn, and Draco had cursed both it and himself three times over before he noticed that his noise had attracted someone's attention.

It was five in the morning, the day after the anniversary of the Battle at Hogwarts, and there was someone other than him commemorating in the early summer morning chill. The shock of seeing who it was had Draco forgetting the effects of last night's drink binge.

The bloody fuck was _Granger _doing here?

"Malfoy?"

She'd recognized him. How precious.

"Good morning, Granger," he managed to rasp, glaring at the gate as if his anger could magically fix it.

"Is it?" was her icy comeback, her disdain for his presence evident in her voice. "I'm fairly sure it was for me until you came along."

"My apologies. Is my mere existence tainting the air that which you breathe?" Draco mock-bowed to cover the fact that arguing with her was giving him a horrendous headache. His voice sounded like it was going through a cheese grater. "Shall I prostrate myself on the ground and beg for forgiveness?"

"Very funny, Malfoy." She sniffed, though whether from crying – her eyes seemed quite red, though it could have been the rising dawn – or contempt, Draco couldn't tell. "What are you even doing here? I've never seen you at the memorial before."

"I should be saying that to you." The said structure towered over them, marble shining in the early morning sun, casting shadows over their bodies. "I come here every year at this time; it's _you _I've never seen."

"Well that's because – wait, what?" Her tone shifted abruptly from loftiness to disbelief. "Every year?"

"What's so shocking about that, Granger?" Somewhere during the conversation – should it be called that – Draco found the courage to walk over to the monument and stand a few feet away from her. He pulled out his wand – out of the corner of his eye, he saw her hand go to hers, a reflex he doubted would be erased so easily by time – and conjured up a small candle. Its tiny flame danced in a summer breeze he couldn't feel. "You're not the only one who lost people to the war."

This seemed to have her floored, and Draco had the momentary satisfaction of having one-upped the great Gryffindor know-it-all. The triumph was fleeting, as a faint (but still sharp) sting shot up his left arm, his wrist having twisted _just _the wrong way. He didn't check to see if the wince was lost on her; he simply set down the candle, looked up at the monument once, and with an abrupt turn, Disapparated.

Before his world was lost to a blur of colors and tightness, he caught sight of her face. And if he wasn't so damned sure that Granger hated him, he might have thought she'd been pained, and just a tad bit guilty.

The thought was lost in the recesses of his mind the minute he reappeared in front of his apartment building, retching into the bushes immediately, having Disapparated without thinking of how it would affect his hungover stomach.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

He had to have dropped them somewhere. The pub, maybe, or in some dark corner of the apartment. Or… well, that last possibility was something he didn't want to think about. Because it would be a reminder of his encounter with _her, _and going through it once had been bad enough. Reliving it would be nothing short of excruciating. It was bad enough that he was beholden to her – did she have to have his gloves, too?

They'd been in his pocket; the morning hadn't been cold enough. Maybe he'd just dropped them at the memorial and she hadn't noticed. Or she'd left them there, preferring not to touch something that belonged to him. The more that he thought about it, the more the latter made sense. Lost or no, she had no reason to take his gloves.

That thought and the hot shower slowly eased Draco's nerves, his momentary panic dissipating with the stench of vomit and vodka.

Part of him couldn't help wondering if he'd smelled that bad when he was around her, and part of him couldn't help wondering why he even cared.

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The next time Draco visited the memorial was in August, on the anniversary of his mother's death. He knew he ought to be visiting her grave instead, but every year he tried and simply couldn't complete the turn to Apparate himself there. Besides, the war was as much a cause of his mother's death as her daily beatings and generally sickly state. If he couldn't mourn her at her actual burial site, this was the next best thing.

The gate creaked open again, causing him to shudder as the sound grated his ears – and then again, he noticed he wasn't alone. And bloody hell, was this de ja vu or a hallucination or torture?

"You left your gloves," was her greeting this time, one hand holding them out as if they had insulted her mother. From her expression it was clear she'd put a lot of thought into coming here, and was still very much conflicted over her presence. But here she was, returning his gloves. As if he needed one more reason to begrudgingly be grateful toward her.

"Just toss them over, Granger," he replied wearily, finding himself unable to look at her for long. He wasn't about to admit it, but this was the first genuine kindness that had been shown to him since he'd been acquitted – reluctant and condescending though the kindness was. She may have hated returning his gloves, may have been loath to even touch them, but here she was, on the morning of his mother's death anniversary, handing them over. And though Draco had over the years maintained a mask impassive and impenetrable, the gesture made his throat tighten.

Living as an undeservingly free man had done some strange things to him.

To his surprise, she did not do as he said, but walked over to him and pushed them into stiff fingers. "I didn't know she was dead," was the only thing she muttered, before taking a leaf from his book and Disapparating, the _crack _echoing in his ears. As Draco shook his head to stop the ringing, he swore to himself she'd done that on purpose.

It wasn't until much later that he realized he had to wonder how she knew what he'd been there for.

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The lift he got into at the Ministry was mercifully empty, and Draco settled in to wait out the long descent toward his department. Only one floor had gone by, however, when the lift doors opened again and lo and behold, who should step in but the very person he'd been trying his damnednest not to think about the past few weeks. He'd even gone and bought a new pair of gloves to make sure he kept no reminders of her. Now he had to share this tiny space with her for Merlin knew how long.

Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, and Draco would have bet his ridiculously expensive, coming-of-age-gift cufflinks she'd flushed pink.

They stood on opposite ends of the lift, awkwardly, putting as much space between them as possible. She fidgeted plenty, while Draco could do nothing but slouch in his corner and watch her out of the corner of his eye. She threw him a few glances, biting her lip as if she was nervous, which was pretty damned impossible. She ought to abhor being in his presence.

Then again, so should he, and yet here he was, tolerating her.

His new gloves suddenly felt rather off.

The lift pinged open at his floor and he straightened. She jumped slightly at his sudden motion – the only one he'd made the whole trip, apart from breathing and blinking – but recovered herself and looked away. Draco suddenly decided to keep up the game they seemed to be playing and left her with another dramatic parting sentence.

"She died three months after the war," he told the air in front of him, just loud enough for her to hear. Before she could react, he was out of the lift and turning the corner, despite the fact that his office was only straight down the hall.

Let her stew over _that._

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The morning of his father's appeal trial, Draco awoke to a horribly loud alarm clock (a nifty Muggle invention he'd taken a shine to, except on the mornings it BLEH BLEH BLEH-ed him awake at six, during which he hated it with a passion enough to rival that for his father), a disoriented Prophet owl who'd smacked into his window, and a forgotten plate of toast on his kitchen table. He didn't know why his father had even been granted the trial, or why his presence was an absolute necessity, but if the Minister commanded. He shrugged on his best suit, and in his morning confusion, almost stepped into his fireplace without tossing some Floo powder into it.

He whirled into the Ministry lobby some minutes later, figuring the Wizengamot would excuse the second-best suit because it was either that or charred knees and blackened pockets.

"The black one is better."

Draco half-tripped over his own feet as he whipped around, wondering who the hell had spoken to him. He almost staggered backward again when he saw _her_ behind him, wild hair contained in a low ponytail, arms loaded with papers. The sight of her was so perplexing it took Draco a few moments to recall she'd spoken to him.

"The bla – the black?"

There would be time to agonize over how pathetic that was, later.

"Your suit." Her condescending attitude was so obviously concealing amusement, but Draco was too bewildered to care. "The black one looks better on you."

"Suit?"

She looked at him as if he were a particularly slow five-year-old to whom she was explaining the two times table, who couldn't seem to grasp that two _plus _two and two _times _two were _the same_. And Draco couldn't help feeling like one, really. This conversation was absolutely nonsensical, no dice.

"I'll just see you in court, Malfoy," she sighed as she walked off, leaving a befuddled Draco to make out what on earth she'd been trying to say.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

His father had not had his sentence lifted, thank Merlin, though there had been moments when Draco had honestly feared former influence and power would win over public sentiment. Hermione Granger, magical lawyer extraordinaire, had, as always, argued the case flawlessly, and had even made it so that Draco was only witness for a few minutes. Even so, summarizing tortures and telling of events had exhausted and pained him. How many more times would he have to go through this before his father finally accepted that he would not be leaving Azkaban for the rest of his life?

The cup of water shoved under his nose broke his train of thought.

"You seemed much more coherent at the trial than in the lobby, if I may note." Her hair was coming out of its tie and there were bags under her eyes, but somehow she was managing to pull a small smile from somewhere, just for Draco. It was her second act of kindness toward him in just as many months, and he mentally slapped himself for being so soft about it. Hermione Granger could not be kind to him, no. This was some momentary lapse in her sanity, is all. And in his, as well.

"Take it. You look drained." She leaned down and wrapped both his hands around the cold, damp plastic. Draco looked down at her skin touching his and wondered where the normal shudder of revulsion had gone. Maybe he was just too tired.

"You must be so alone." Awkward hesitation. "I'm sorry."

Draco couldn't be sure he'd heard that right, but when he looked up, she was halfway out the door. What had she meant-? He may have lost family – even Snape – but he wasn't – he forced his thoughts to stop there. He had no reason to be dwelling on something she'd said, especially not something like _that._

To make up for his slip, he dropped the cup she'd given him into a nearby garbage bin, completely untouched, and Scourgified his hands twice for good measure.

He _would not _stew over something a Mudblood had said.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Three in the morning and suddenly Draco didn't care so much that a Mudblood had said those words. In the dark of his apartment, he couldn't help but feel very much alone.

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Six months after the trial and Draco found himself back in the Ministry court rooms, this time managing papers regarding his father's… release. He supposed Lucius' death should have come as an immense relief to him, bringing with it the sense of finality and freedom, but in reality, it was all he could do to muster a smile at the jokes Edward Fittlebark, the family lawyer, made. He wasn't sad, but he wasn't comforted either; where there ought to be emotions was emptiness.

Except when he looked at her. And Merlin, how he tried not to, because if he did he remembered her apologies and her pity and how he'd both wanted it and been disgusted by it. Because she was being kind to him, _him, _the boy who'd tormented her six years of her life, who'd stood by when Bellatrix had tortured her in his own home, who hadn't had the courage to defect from a cause he'd no longer believed in but couldn't fight to save face. The boy stuck in coward limbo.

He ought to resent her for being kind, ought to loath the sympathy – he was still a Malfoy, a pure-blood after all, and who was she but Granger – but instead it just hurt.

Because he didn't deserve it.

"Guess your old man wasn't as tough as he thought, eh? Couldn't last even a year in that forsaken island." Fittlebark rasped in laughter. "Leaves you to inherit everything, really. Or everything the Ministry hasn't taken away."

"Thank you, Mr. Fittlebark. I can take things from here."

Now would likely be the only time Draco would ever be openly grateful to Hermione Granger. As it stood, he did not thank her out loud, but simply threw her a quick smile and hoped it would suffice. She returned his much warmer as she ushered Fittlebark out of the room – and to his surprise, it stayed there, even now that they were alone.

"So," she began, hovering uncertainly over the desk. "The Malfoy inheritance, huh?"

"Just give me the damn papers." Every second with her was making him and the situation that much more claustrophobic.

She held out a large sheaf of papers, but when he put his hand out to take them hers pulled back. "Why are you signing them over so willingly? And to the Ministry of all people?" The words hurried out of her mouth like she was afraid that if she didn't get them out in time, they'd never get out at all.

"Papers, Granger." He snatched them from her loose fingers. "I'm not obligated to answer that."

"Well you can't blame me for being curious, Malfoy." She was miffed and he knew it, but he derived no gratification from seeing her irritated flush. The quill scratched over the papers as he signed his name, over and over. Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy. What he wouldn't give now to be rid of that name, the name of which he used to be so proud; a name that where it once was leverage was now a curse.

"There. All yours." He dropped the stack onto the desk between them, the _thump _startling her. Not waiting for a reply, he grabbed his coat and made to leave. A hand on his forearm stopped him. She was touching – that was the _left _one –

"Malfoy." Merlin, why wasn't she letting him leave? Was it so she could burn him again with her bloody compassion? "Look, I don't mean to crack open old wounds. I just want to know. I mean… that was your home. This is your – stuff."

From somewhere amongst the dregs of his pride and dignity, Draco summoned a hollow laugh. "No, Granger, none of it was ever mine. It was only ever his. I don't want any of it."

"But-"

"Come off it, Granger. Did you really expect me to _want _to be left alone with a life I don't deserve?" Her grip was slacking, thank Merlin. Draco wondered what the expression on her face was – and then remembered he ought not to care. "Piss off and go save the world from corrupt wizard families and former Death Eaters. I've got Muggle artifacts to rescue from misuse."

He made sure to slam the door extra hard in her face, as payback for Disapparating right by his ear. It was petty and childish, but it was _something. _Because for a moment he'd been scared he wouldn't be able to muster any sort of retort or taunt to throw back at her for her comment in court.

He was scared her kindness was getting to him.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

In the confines of his shower, Draco couldn't help but wonder which life he'd meant he didn't deserve – the luxury and oppression of Malfoy Manor or the free life he was living now, tolerated but not accepted by the wizard world?

Scalding water beat down on his back and Draco found he had no answers.

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"Isn't there some sort of law that decrees you leave me alone after I've signed your bloody papers?"

"I told you, Malfoy, it's just a legal hitch." A new pile of papers was dropped onto his desk. "Since some of the stuff was apparently your mother's as well."

"Under my mother's name, you mean. Stop sugarcoating, Granger." Again, his name, over and over. Would it ever end, the suffering that seemed to come as a package deal with being a Malfoy in the new world?

There was a silence in his office, but not the companionable kind, or the comforting kind, or even the awkward kind. It was the kind of silence wherein you just _knew _the other person was dying to say something, but they couldn't – wouldn't – and so – "out with it, Granger."

She started, blushing a little, probably embarrassed he'd called her bluff. "I was just – I just wanted to know-"

"Yes, everything we owned, from the Manor to our spoons, was purchased by my father through both legal and black market means. Some he purchased under my mother's name for show, but he controlled our every asset. My father _was _master of the Malfoy household." It wasn't the first time he'd had to explain this, and it wearied him to the bone. But telling it to Granger of all people – Mudblood Granger, Gryffindor "Golden Girl" and the brains of the Potter bunch – felt strangest of all. He was maggots to her. And she was… well he was indebted to her, thrice over.

"Even these?"

Something about her voice made him look up despite every fiber of his being screaming to either ignore her or hex her out of his cubicle. But look up he did, and what should be sitting next to her but a medium-sized cardboard box. Filled with very familiar things.

Draco made no move to go over to her, or acknowledge the items in any way other than staring at them, but he could see and recognize them all. Some journals; some books. A luxurious eagle feather quill, now tattered. A picture frame. His second-best suit from the Hogwarts years. Paint brushes. A handful of canvases. All monogrammed with the DM in dark gray wax or thread.

There was a choked noise at the back of his throat and Draco willed it to go unheard. But either she could read minds or had superhuman hearing, or else his emotions were just that rampant on his face, because she smiled hesitantly. "I figured, well… I figured you had to get _something _for all the flak. We've been hard on you for…so long…already."

**xxxxxxxxxx**

It was hours after she left before Draco managed to force his joints to move and take him over to the box that contained the last traces of arrogant, elitist Draco Malfoy.

His left arm hurt as he picked up the box and he let it.

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The next year Draco made sure to visit the war memorial the day _before, _in case she should remember. But as he conjured his little candle and placed it in front of the cold stone, he found himself moving just a little more slowly, almost as if he were… waiting. Wanting.

The realization hit him hard and fast and knocked the wind right out of him, and so he Disapparated as fast as he could before he could change his mind and head somewhere else.

It was well within his rights to know where his sometimes-lawyer lived, please and thank you.

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The death day anniversary was something else entirely, and though Draco tried three times he still couldn't go over to the actual grave and honor Narcissa Malfoy there. Perhaps it was the presence of _other _family that deterred him – Merlin knew why the Ministry overruled public sentiment and allowed some of his more… fanatic relatives to be buried with the rest of the Malfoy tree – or perhaps it was because of the distance that had always been there between him and his parents. The small Malfoy graveyard was stuffy and intimate and Draco felt more like a stranger than a son, anyway. An acquaintance none too comfortably kept.

Still, he delayed his trip to the memorial as long as he could, until finally afternoon rolled around and he'd run out of excuses. His apartment was spotless, his paperwork filled out, he'd done enough trips to the loo and cooking more food was a waste.

He wondered if he'd ever be like this on the day of his father's death anniversary. If he would even acknowledge it.

With a sigh, he stepped out and spun himself into a blur of unraveling space and colors.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

If he'd Apparated three more steps to the right he'd have fallen smack on her head.

She shrieked at his sudden appearance but apart from a slight stumble in the opposite direction, he in no way acknowledged her presence. This was painful enough without the constant reminder of her presence. Maybe if he simply pretended she wasn't there…

…was that a _candle?_

What – was being nice to him not enough? Now she had to be nice to his mother, too? What the fuckity fuck?

"She did help save Harry." Ah, yes, how could he have forgotten? His mother had helped the Wonderboy take down Voldemort by lying about Wonderboy's vital statistics, all to know if her son was prancing around the castle as a living boy instead of floating about as a ghost.

It was hard not to wonder where all this bitter bravado was coming from.

"Nice to know you remembered," muttered his traitorous lips. So much for ignoring her. He ought to conjure his own candle now, lay it among the ruins of countless other ones, leave the area ineffably tainted by her presence, but like his mouth, the rest of his body wouldn't listen to him.

"'Nice' is one of the worst words in the English language."

"I came here for a commemoration, not a grammar lesson."

"Vocabulary."

Draco decided he would not deign to respond. She was leaning against the marble to his right and he was ignoring her. Finally his fingers decided to obey him; a candle was casting its warm glow on his cheeks. His right hand tucked his wand back into his pocket as the left came up to take the candle from midair –

"Dra – oh, Merlin – your arm!"

And then, and _then _Draco looked at her, and with vehemence. Something in his expression made her blanch, take a few steps back, and while she was pale as a ghost her eyes were shining with – no. They could not, would not, because what Mudblood would shed a tear for a Malfoy, and for _him_ at that?

His tiny blue candle – his mother's favorite color, that of a fathomless and ever-changing ocean – plummeted to the ground as Draco squeezed his eyes shut and Disapparated.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

In the shower again, for the third time that day, and still Draco couldn't scour away the memory of those tears. His head was already bruised from having hit the wall multiple times, berating himself for forgetting his coat today of all days. He scrubbed his skin roughly, until it was red and raw and some of it bleeding, particularly the lines on his left forearm that spelled TRAITOR in scars, running right over his ineffaceable Dark Mark.

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This time Draco visited the war memorial a week _after, _to make completely sure she would not be there. For almost a year she hadn't bothered him, hadn't crossed his path at all, and that was perfectly all right. Especially since their last encounter had resulted in her almost discovering something he'd studiously hidden for years, something kept covered by long-sleeved shirts and suit jackets.

For almost a year he forced himself to dwell on that, instead of the fact that their last encounter had left him feeling somewhat…lacking. Almost as if something were left unfinished.

Draco had never told anyone about those scars, and those _did _know were dead. One fatal error in his part had led her to seeing the word his beloved aunt had carved onto his arm– a mimic of the etches she had given "Mudblood Granger." For a moment his judgment and rational had failed and he'd almost told her, almost spilled the story of the word branding him like cattle. Surely she, of all people, would understand the weight it carried, the way it haunted you for the rest of your life. But then he'd remembered who she was and who _he _was and had been, and so he'd let anger overrun the need for sympathy.

Besides, he didn't need sympathy. He was Draco sodding Malfoy; he could take care of himself.

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This time the gate opened soundlessly and he was grateful.

He stood before the memorial far longer than necessary, until his candle had dwindled to a stump, the tiny flame guttering in the moving air and melting wax. He watched it struggle to burn on, to keep alight against the odds, and for a few minutes he let his sanity slip and he willed it to die. He could feel the hunger for it to go out, for it to stop resisting the inevitable end, and when it finally snuffed out he felt the warmth of wild, sadistic satisfaction flood through him –

– and because the gate wasn't creaky anymore he didn't sense her until she'd grabbed his arm and shoved up the sleeve of his pullover, exposing his brand to them both.

"Draco –"

He jerked back as if _she _had burned _him, _touched a candle to his skin, and she might as well have, because _Draco _she'd called him – Draco and not Malfoy, not Ferret, not dumb Death Eater. Her voice around his name cut through him, as did the wide brown eyes that couldn't tear themselves away from the word engraved on his flesh.

"Look, I – I'm sorry, but if I'd asked you wouldn't have – I just wanted to know-"

"That's the problem with you, isn't it, Granger?" Draco let anger take the forefront, because it was easier to be angry, it was far simpler than any of the other emotions charging to the front line. "You _always _just want to know! You're always shoving your nose into some dusty book or stack of papers – and now into other people's lives to boot! Isn't it enough that you know those things about my childhood?" He whirled on her, made toward her, and she was frightened in a way she hadn't been, even during their school days, frightened and guilty and sad. And how he hated her for it. "Isn't it enough that you'd gone through my things, pawed through my life – hell, isn't it enough that you've got me so indebted to you because you _saved _my life? Even if I didn't deserve it? Everything you've pried from my life – everything I've worked to keep to myself, to keep safe – is that not enough that you have to know about _this, _too?"

He thrust his arm toward her, waving it wildly in front of her face, making sure she got a detailed, close-up glimpse of the word branded onto his skin with Dark Magic.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please-"

"Spare me the false sympathy, Granger, you're not sorry," he spat. "You're probably ecstatic that I've been marked out as filth, just the same as you."

"I'm not."

And all the retorts, all the arguments and anger Draco was building up to hurl in her direction fizzled out in that instant, because her voice was just so regretful and guilt-ridden and _sincere _that it arrested his voice. He swallowed once, twice, managed to croak out, "you're – not?"

"Why would I be?" she replied, quiet, not looking at him, but coming forward and taking his arm in her hands. He tried to wrench if from her grasp, tried to twist his wrist away, but she held fast – and inexplicably, her touch was soothing to his skin. "Why would I be happy about these?"

At the word "these," she took one hand off his arm – Draco's throat tightened slightly at the loss of the touch – and pulled back her jacket sleeve, revealing the "Mudblood" carving she'd received in his home all those years ago. She pulled his arm until it was parallel with hers, their skin almost, _almost _touching, the slightest of gaps sending pinpricks of _something _between them. There they were, the almost identical scars, side by side – traitor and Mudblood. Draco and Hermione.

The sight of her own brand was more than enough to let Draco find the strength to pull his arm from her, and this time she let him. He backed away, fighting to keep down his lunch or whatever it was trying to come up his throat. Her arm was still hanging there, the word "Mudblood" hanging between them – the insult he'd thrown at her again and again at Hogwarts, that he couldn't seem to give voice to any longer.

"Why did they do it to you, Draco?"

It was a long while before Draco answered; a long while, even, before Draco decided he would tell her the truth. It could very well be the only way he could repay his debt to her, even just a little. The afternoon sun was starting to set when Draco found the words.

"Dobby didn't drop the chandelier."

She said nothing, but the shock in her eyes was enough to tell him to keep going.

"Dobby didn't. It was me. There was plenty of confusion going around, so – well I told him to take the credit; not like you'd have believed the truth. But they – they found out afterward. Who really did it."

The war memorial towered over them, imposing and impressive and every bit a reminder of what exactly had led up to it. Draco stared at her shadow; it was the next best thing after meeting her eyes, which he could not do.

"They tortured me, afterward." His left hand clenched tight, making old wounds sting. "In the exact same place where they – they tortured…you." He looked down at the word on his skin. "Bellatrix gave me this."

It was rather anti-climatic but it was all Draco had to say. He was hoping she'd drop the subject, get the message that he'd admitted enough – that he'd told much more to her than to anyone and he didn't want to say any more. But she was a know-it-all and a Gryffindor through and through, and so she asked – "why?"

"Why what, Granger?" he replied dully, knowing full well what she was asking.

"Why did you drop the chandelier?" Her eyes sought his but he evaded, not wanting to see what she felt. Not wanting her to see how _he _felt. "Why did you help us?"

Draco looked at her sleeve, pushed up messily to the elbow. It was deep green; he wondered if she'd done it on purpose. His gaze traveled upward, to the plain collar of her jacket, taking in the black shirt, the silver heart-shaped locket stark against it. Anything to avoid looking at the wounds on her arm, because there lay the answer.

"Draco?" she pressed.

"It was the same." So quiet, choked – as if the words were trying not to be let out, trying to cling to his tongue.

"What-?"

"Your blood!" Fist clenched tighter, now, making the scars stand out all the more against his pale skin. "It was the same – it was just like mine. Red – flowing – like all those times they'd tortured me – it made the same stains on the carpet." He held up his arm. His voice was so quiet. "It makes the same scars." Mudblood and traitor. "Your blood – it was just like mine. It was clean."

The sky darkened around them as if sensing all the implications carried by the words Draco had just said. They were looking at each other now, Draco with his arm up and Hermione with hers clutched to her chest. As the full weight of his words sunk into her, they slowly dropped their arms – Draco's dangling by his side and Hermione's awkwardly cradled low on her hips.

Draco had never admitted it out loud – Bellatrix and Lucius had only ever guessed – had never told anyone the revelation he'd had as he'd witnessed this girl before him be tortured on the floor of his home, that derogatory term etched into her skin in her own blood. And to confess it to that very girl right now, in front of a memorial that stood for her victory and his loss, was cathartic and humiliating and painful all at once. A hundred different emotions flitted across her face and for a moment Draco thought she would not believe him, that the word "traitor" on his skin would end up just another reason for her to hate him, but her expression softened, and there was understanding in her eyes.

They were, after all, the same.

She crossed to him again, took his left hand gently in hers, twisted their arms up, turning their wounds to the heavens. They looked down at them, at the remnants of an experience they now knew they both shared. He wondered if she'd _really _understood what his words fully meant – that he'd done all that, received that brand, _for her._ But the way she twined their fingers, for just those few moments, told him that maybe,maybe she did.

She was the first to reach out to him, and she was also the first to Disapparate, withdrawing her fingers and disappearing into the deepening night.

And Draco stood alone in the moonlight, knowing he'd had the final say this time around but feeling as if this last encounter was incomplete.

Her lips had been pink.

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Hangovers were bitches on their period, and this morning's was no exception. Draco could very well remember why he'd thought it had been a good idea to drink himself stupid last night, but he was trying not to think about it. Not today of all days.

Today was May the 3rd, in the year 2007. He'd barely glanced at the midnight paper on his way out, and he hadn't even taken a cup of coffee. He preferred the throbbing pain of the hangover over the other kind he was feeling. But he _hadn't _missed the change in cover photo for today's Prophet. In place of grubby, war-beaten Potter was the happy photo of Weasel kissing a laughing Granger, the headline screaming the event in case you'd been hiding under a rock this past week.

Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were engaged. The wizarding world's wedding of the century.

He was far too early this morning; the sun was barely up, but the war memorial would have lamps that were lit automatically when the evening grew too dark. When he rematerialized he clutched at the gate for a few moments, fearful he might lose what little was in his stomach. It had gotten creaky again, as the war memorial was visited less and less frequently as the end of the first decade after the war drew close. It still had plenty of visitors, yes, but just less.

He'd gotten all the way up to the war memorial before he spotted her.

"Good morning, Draco," she called hesitantly, from her seat on one of the benches to the side. She had a book open on her lap; despite the fact that she was sitting under a lamp, her wand was lit. Probably worried about her eyes and reading in the poor light. The thought almost made Draco snort with laughter.

"Is it?" he called back, trying to keep his voice frosted. "I'm fairly sure it was for me until you came along."

She laughed, then, at his throwing her words back at her, words used from the first time they'd encountered each other here, five years prior. "Should I apologize, then?"

"No," and there was a smile on his face and in his voice. He lit his candle and set it amongst the dried puddles of others. The brief glow and warmth on his face had been pleasant. "What are you doing here so early?"

"Waiting for you to show up."

The words caught at something in his chest. He kept his eyes on his candle, but obliquely he saw her close her book – he heard the snap – and stand up. He watched the flame hold steady as she made her way toward him, making his own heart waver.

"Not going to drop your gloves again on me?" There was forced levity in her voice, both of them could hear it.

"Haven't got any, Granger." He wiggled his left hand a little and she caught it, _just _holding it in hers. Her thumb tucked itself just under the edge of his coat sleeve and he blanched, but it went no further. And despite what she'd done to him five years ago, this touch felt far more intimate. A heavy silence fell between them as he watched the candle and she watched him. He broke it first. "I suppose congratulations are in order."

"Well-"

"It's not a surprise; I'm pretty sure everyone saw it coming. Rita Skeeter's probably been dying, waiting for it to finally happen."

"Hey-"

"Wedding of the century, right? Or second only to Potter's and Weaselette's? Should be a blast, now that you both can afford-"

She silenced him, then, with the most unexpected and most welcome gesture she could ever give him – she kissed him. Full, on the lips, with her own soft ones; deep and long and passionate. There were so many things unspoken in that kiss: that she did care for him, now; that, perhaps, she had wanted to do this earlier but couldn't; that this would be the last time they encountered each other at the memorial – that she would go on the right day, the next time, while he would always be late. Even his presence in her life, his status change, was late.

She was the first to breach the gap, and she was the first to pull away. Her hand withdrew at the same time as her lips. Draco felt, fleetingly, the urge to pull her to him again, kiss her just once more, or more than – kiss her again, take her home, keep her. Explain to her in every way why he'd helped save her get away. But he saw the lamplight glinting on her engagement ring and so he buried the urge deep, trying to get it deep enough so it would only hurt as much as his arm.

She broke the silence first, this time. "You were never indebted to me, it seems."

"Pardon?" Her words threw him off. Of course he was. Everything he had right now – his job, his rights, his freedom – was because of her. She'd saved him from his father's fate.

"You saved my life at Malfoy Manor. You dropped the chandelier." Her hand touched her left forearm lightly, briefly. "Apparently I was just paying you back."

His eyes widened at the realization. No, no they couldn't be square, because he didn't deserve-

"Don't even think that." God, was she reading his mind or was he just that predictable? "You do deserve to be free, for what you did." And she caught his hand again, his left one, pressed it and his forearm to her wildly beating heart. "Thank you."

He had nothing to say to her, because what _could _you say to something like that? This forgiveness and understanding would just be another debt to her, to the one person in the wizarding community who saw him this way. And it seemed she did not expect anything to be said in return, because she dropped his hand, stepped back for a second time that morning, and with one last smile, Disapparated.

The turn of her Disapparation caused a small change in the air currents, which carried over to the memorial. Draco's small candle flickered once, twice, but he paid it no notice.

"You're welcome," he whispered to the early morning hours and the dead candles and the lamps. His right palm pressed through his coat against his scars.

He Disapparated soon afterward, his tiny candle still burning on.

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_**A/N **I'm wondering if putting that all in a one-shot (that's 14 pages and roughly 8000 words long – a record for me) was a bit much. But it seemed not quite right for a chapter fic, so Idk…_

_Anyway, R&R? I'm worried I might have gotten too wordy up there, haha. And that the ending was a flop._


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